


Gift You With a Marking Breath

by unsettled



Series: Bloody Your Wrists With Kisses [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Handcuffs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-20
Updated: 2010-10-20
Packaged: 2017-10-12 18:58:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/128018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He's wanted this ever since Clarkey had told him, in highly amused tones, just how had found Holmes in the Grand. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Gift You With a Marking Breath

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel of sorts to Like Fingers Round My Throat. tabby_stardust suggested there should be more of a certain scene, and … oh, look what happened.

Most of the time, when they are together like this, Lestrade is rather more indulgent of Holmes' peculiarities. And that's all well and good and perfectly … enjoyable, to say the least.

But right now, Lestrade feels like indulging himself.

Besides. Holmes needs to be taken down a notch every now and then.

Holmes' wrists are still circled by dark, pooled blood, fading delicately at the edges from the deep purpled black of bruised violets to a greenish tinged yellow, like aged paper, like gaslight in fog. Lestrade runs his thumb over the skin, pressing, and watches as the skin around the marks whitens, leaving them standing out even more vividly than before.

He doesn't miss Holmes' sharply caught breath.

"On the bed," he tells Holmes, and the way Holmes _doesn't_ scramble to obey is troublesome.

He's sure Holmes will do better next time, after this.

The cuffs are hanging from his fingers as he leans over Holmes, curls his hand around one well adorned wrist. He snaps the cuff around it and draws it up, to the top of the bed. Holmes twists his head to follow the movement, and his breath rushes out when he sees Lestrade threading the other cuff through the rails on the headboard. He's offering Lestrade his other wrist before it can even be asked for, wide-eyed and hopeful. Lestrade quirks a look at him, but closes the cuff around it anyway.

Holmes is beginning to breathe quicker, but he's still far too composed for Lestrade's liking. He settles between Holmes' legs, slides his arms under Holmes' legs, the back of Holmes' knees pressing against the inside of his elbows, and suddenly, sharply, pulls.

Holmes slides forward on the bed sheets, only stopped when the cuffs ring against the headboard, pulled taut, and Holmes' arms are stretched far above his head, taut and shaking and close enough to too far that they must be burning, deep in the muscles. His shoulders are tight and set, tensing even more as Lestrade sets his hands against Holmes' hip bones and pulls him closer, or at least tries to.

The cuffs are biting into Holmes' wrists, sinking deep into that darkly marked flesh; Holmes cries out sharply, arches his back and fights then almost mindlessly, twisting his wrists until the metal catches on skin and there's blood aiding in the slide of metal. Any time Holmes looks to be relaxing into his bonds, Lestrade pulls him forward, pushes him back, presses a hand to his hip, just under his sternum, to the fluttering pulse at the base of his neck and knocks him back off balance, back into frantic desperation, back into that mixture of need and fear that is far too enticing.

He's wanted this ever since Clarkey had told him, in highly amused tones, just how had found Holmes in the Grand.

Holmes is beyond words, beyond thought, as he so very rarely is, and Lestrade hasn't even touched his heavy, reddened cock. He does now; falls forward over Holmes' body and settles into him, every inch of skin touching, their cocks pressing together with a force that draws another harsh, broken cry from Holmes, causing him to struggle more, fighting to rut up against Lestrade, fighting to have his hands on Lestrade, fighting for a little control, a little relief.

He won't get it.

Lestrade rolls his hips, grinds against Holmes as he pins him down. Presses lips, and then teeth, to upraised underside of Holmes' arms, tender and pale and begging to be marked. He obliges.

Every sharp, bruising bite wrings another needy sound out of Holmes, until Lestrade could probably make him come by merely breathing on the skin. He's near too, his thrusts beginning to lose some of their control. Maybe he could bring Holmes past the edge with merely a breath, but he'd rather sink his teeth into bruising flesh as he comes, and he's only peripherally aware of Holmes coming as well, around the edges of his own orgasm.

*

He sighs, stretches. Holmes is only half conscious beside him. Lestrade runs the tips of his fingers over the long, stretched out muscles of Holmes' arm. Holmes quivers.

He stands, begins to dress. Holmes turns his head and watches him drowsily, without alarm. His expression shifts into anticipation as Lestrade steps to the bed again, kneels next to him and wraps his fingers around the chain linking Holmes' wrists. He doesn't tug at it, doesn't shift them at all; he merely leans down until he is breathing in the faint tang of iron on Holmes' skin, and breathes out against those bruised, abraded wrists. Holmes moans helplessly, shudders, a high desperate whine sneaking in and catching in his throat. Lestrade grins.

Leans back.

Slides off the bed and walks to the door. "Lestrade!" Holmes calls after him, his voice strained and needy. "The keys!"

Lestrade stops. Turns around and leans against the door for a moment, and raises an eyebrow. He digs in his pocket and pulls out something metallic and glinting; tosses it onto the bed between Holmes' spread legs.

If Holmes is diligent and as flexible as he boasts, he'll manage to snag the lock picks eventually. If it will be before Mrs. Hudson or Dr. Watson decide they've had enough of Holmes 'sulking in his room' is another question.

"Why, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade says as he heads out the door. "I thought you wanted a little more practice."


End file.
